Categories
Fantasy Fashion Gay

Tranny Hooker/Model Booker

Sitting in Ground Works coffee spot on Sunset with Kevin and Fielder yesterday.  Eating a cheese Danish after my latest stint on the JVM show.

Alleged ‘Madame’,  Anna Gristina has been locked up in solitary on Rikers Islandcharged with a single count of prostitution.  Held on an absurd $2million bail.

“It’s not about me; it’s bigger than me,”   “They’re trying to sweat me out. They are clearly trying to break me.”

The self-described “hockey mom” and real-estate developer claims to have no idea why prosecutors are so intent on digging up dirt on those men – half of whom she said she knew as friends or business associates.

“I’d bite my tongue off before I’d tell them anything,”

Since my run in with the LAPD I know exactly how they try breaking their victims of choice.  Can you believe that they tried forcing me sign a gagging order?  As part of their ‘deal’ the DA tried to get me to sign a gagging order…

Obviously I won round 1 by getting myself out of jail.

The fight will get a great deal harder, nastier and…as I predicted…the Immigration Department are already trying to discredit me.

They already lied to the Newsweek journalist Christine P (a meticulous journalist with great sources) about my immigration status.

As I pointed out to her, even if I had been here illegally or ‘out of status’ the immigration department and the Sherrif’s Dept. are still obliged to follow rules and protocols.

As it happened, when I was arrested, I was neither here illegally nor was I out of status.

Kevin and I had lunch yesterday at the 101 Coffee Shop on Franklin.  Delicious.  We polished our ‘trans superhero’ idea.

By day Ricky is a model booker at LA Models.  “Hello?  Nordstrom?  Yes, you got it.”  However, by night, after the emergency call on his ‘weave phone’,  he’s Tranny Hooker!  Solving gay crime all over WeHo.  Dressed in his bad wig, gold disco shorts, crop top and size 13 stilettos he flies (fueled by huge amounts of Tina) along Santa Monica Blvd, to The Abbey where he/she solves most of WeHo’s gay crime…

Mostly crimes against style, including badly cut pants, shopping at Vons and old men pawing mid-western model boys at their palatial homes in the hills…

There by the table I leapt up, over the blackened chicken sandwich, acting out Tranny Hooker’s flight through smoggy LA…just as Robby arrived.

Great being back on Jane’s show.  Love CNN.  Love the make up girls.  Love the security guards…

Categories
Dogs

Tap Dancing in a Mine Field

The twins are falling in love.  Not with each other.

Their friend Kevin (my Oscar weekend wing man) and I are left at home, listening to the stories.   They return battle-scarred from long nights with new lovers.  It can be frustrating.  Watching them make the same mistakes we all made.

Robby in love: tap dancing in a mine field.

The hyacinths died.  The man who brought them is sick with gout.

The house is so beautiful at the moment.  The pale, watery Californian winter sunlight…perfect for my English decor and sensibility.

I must have written that a thousand times during the time I have been blogging.

The twins have their 22nd  birthday in two weeks.  They don’t want a party, they don’t want any attention.   We’ll see if they change their mind.

I have a new dog.  A Chihuahua/Boston Terrier mix called Dude.   A rescue, he can’t believe his luck.  He peed on Kevin’s bed last night.  He trots along like a Lipizzan.  He has a deep, croaky bark.  He follows me around like a shadow, much to The Little Dog’s profound irritation.

Washed all the sheets yesterday, the linen smelt heavenly when I crawled into bed last night.

Press conference at the end of the month.  Testifying for the ACLU mid April.  Dinners planned with the most unlikely allies.

Charity dinners for the LA Gay and Lesbian Center’s Homeless Youth Program and a Freedom to Marry event in April.  Trying to throw myself into the melee.   Trying to be of service.

I have categorically decided that I will not be sober much longer, just waiting for the right moment to take my first drink.  It is possible to drink and believe in God?  Many people do it.  My primary concern.

Unless I find alternative meetings where there are people more like me?  I don’t mean gay meetings.  It’s bollocks…this AA shit.

Good intentions ruined by a bunch of alcoholics.

Categories
art

Plein Soleil

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dFDX5Gozzk&feature=related]

Mel picked me up from the house at 6.15am and we drove into The Palisades for the 7.30am AA ‘bank’ stag meeting.  I could only endure a few moments then I left.

I wandered around the Farmers Market looking at the organic vegetables, cut flowers, the smell of fresh samosas baking in the early morning sun.

I felt like Ripley (played by Alain Delon) at the fish market in the original film version Plein Soleil (see above starts at 9 mins and 9 seconds) of the novel The Talented Mr Ripley by Patricia Highsmith.

He has no idea what is waiting for him…

I first saw this film in Spetses, Greece.  The open air cinema, when I was 21.  Ironic huh?

If you don’t know this film…see it.  It’s available in its entirety on YouTube.

I couldn’t sit in that meeting facing those scoundrels.  One of them told us that he had called his wife a cunt and the other laughed heartily.  He was trying to confess his wrongs, the others behaved like Rush Limbaugh.  They thought it was sooo damned funny.

So I went for a walk in the now blazing sun.   The hottest day of the year so far.

I chatted with a good-looking man and tried to take my mind off the meeting.

Mel and I walked the dogs down to the ocean.  After he dropped me back at the house I tried writing, attempted to eat.

A friend dropped by and we meditated. Yes, we did.

Dinner with Anna in Venice, met a Greek friend, bumped into Rufus. Bed by 11.

Categories
prison

My Faith is Restored

The dog sleeps by my side, I worry that I might roll on him in the night and kill him.  Or, in a dream, I dismember him then wake up and he is dismembered.

As a very young child I worried that I had torn a dress to pieces that belonged to my mother.

I convinced myself that I had stolen the dress from her wardrobe, torn the dress, trying to make it fit me.

The shame of shredding it lived with me for decades.  One day, some time in my 40’s, I confessed to her.  I told her what I had done.  She laughed, the dress had been her sisters, she had returned the dress.

The woolen crepe feel of it, the silk lining, the dark blue flowers lifted like brocade on the darker blue surface.  The dream, the scissors, the cutting, trying to make it fit….me.

It was a dream.

You know that every word I write is being read by the police, by the brunette DA?  By the ‘victim’s’ lawyers?  They trawl this blog for evidence.  Did I just prove how ‘dark and creepy’ I really am?

In another dream the DA is wearing suspenders and a bra, panties (crotchless) a wet gash, slipping herself onto her much older husband’s giant cock.   She glances at the bible that sits primly on the bedside table and kicks it off.  Her ankle bracelet (an anniversary gift) catches the light, her Christian name written in gold.

Her children are sleeping in another room.  Oblivious.

These are the dreams I didn’t have in jail.  I could not dream.

Another marathon press session yesterday.  This time a fearless woman made it up the mountain.  Blond, slim, attractive.  I asked her who would play her in the movie of her life.  Jodi Foster.  Good choice.

I often wonder, when I am having an out-of-body experience, out of my life for a moment experience…what the hell is happening?

A four-hour interview.  After she left I fell into bed and slept deeply until Kevin arrived.   He chauffeured me into Venice, for dinner with Anna at Axe (where I once made a beautiful boy wear agent provocateur underwear and blow me in the bathroom…)  We ate everything on the menu: the flat bread and the crab and the boiled beef with polenta.  Anna drank a bottle of wonderful white wine, I envied her so much.  I wanted to taste it.  To feel the effect of the wine on my body and mind.  To take a few hours off.

When the sun sets, the nights are chilly, cold enough for a scarf.

After dinner a Mormon arrived from the internet.  We could not keep our hands off of each other.  I slipped my hands up under his coat onto his warm belly.  I kissed him on his lips.  He smiled coyly.  28 years in the closet, 28 years yearning for this.  Yes, he was the Mormon boy you see dressed in a suit wearing a badge, looking like a talent agent.

He’s out there experimenting, meeting men, feeling his way into a gay life.

At home we fell into bed and I found myself giving into him, becoming uncharacteristically submissive.  He came three times.  He didn’t lose his erection in between.  I couldn’t stop kissing him.  I made him mark my neck.  I made him bite me.

Sucking the spit out of his mouth.  The cum out of his cock.

The twins arrived home at 2.30am.  He had long gone.

The silent house.  I lay in bed and listened to my breath fill my lungs.  Enjoying the sensation of being alive.  A sensation I have had often since I left the jail.  I have been so alive since they shat me out of the MCJ. Walk through that door and you’ll be free.

The jail has restored my faith in humanity?  You wanted to know how so?

Because I met men in there, undeserving black men, paying the price with dignity. Because it made me re-evaluate everything.

(He brought me a bunch of hyacinths, the pungent fragrance fills the room.)

I have met extraordinary men and women since I left the jail.  Men and women who restored my faith in America. The USA.  Brilliant, humblingly brilliant minds working to free the men I knew (and men like them) from a barbaric life in an American jail.

This is the Newtonian ‘equal and opposite’ reaction to the life I had before I passed imperceptibly into my dotage, my serious…third life.

Picasso was hot, even when he was 70.”  he said.

The people I am meeting, the places I am visiting are so startlingly different from the life you thought I aspired.  I find myself in dingy offices down town.  Understanding obscure laws.  Recasting myself.  Relishing the next interview.  I am useful at last.  I am useful to them.  Useful for changing laws, illegal protocols…and people are listening.  I am being heard…it feels good.

You see what they did to Julian Assange?  They will try to do that to me.  They will discredit me.  They will try.  Scurrilously, meticulously, evidentially.  They will tell you that I can’t be trusted.  When the moment…that moment we have all been waiting for, the moment before the curtain rises, when the audience hushed, the lights have dimmed.

That moment is fast approaching.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Categories
prison

Brothers, Sisters, Mothers and Fathers

Spent the greater part of yesterday removing redundant blog entries from this blog.  Bloody hell, what a waste of time.

It was frankly embarrassing re-reading all that shit.  All that fury, that indignation I had for him.  It was just so embittered and…not very well written.  Beware the curse of resentment!

From 11am-3pm I sat with a journalist discussing my ongoing legal story.  They are sending a photographer.  It’s a cover story.  The last time I had this much interest from the press I was making movies.  Now I am doing something for the greater good, I have been handed an oppertunity to help others and I am grasping hold of it.  Nothing will unseat me from doing the right thing.

I left something of myself in the jail. I left that Duncan who deserved no respect.

Do you understand that darling? Do you remember when I was serious, contained?  You found it so attractive?

Everything from my old life, pre jail has become irrelevant.  The artifice, the indulgence, the decadence…it was a worthless occupation.  Chasing infamy?  Even the places I used to visit daily are of no interest to me.  The people I know there, the people I knew…caught up in their own peculiar madness, their preoccupation with power and prestige.

I remind myself to be truthful, to be kind.

The people I have been meeting since leaving the jail, the activists, the lawyers, the human rights advocates…I am humbled by their brilliance, their focus, their dedication.

Lastly, as I was sitting with the fiercely intelligent man who interviewed me yesterday I remembered something about the jail that impressed me.  Something peculiar to the gay dorm, peculiar to that community of trans and gay men.

On the streets, elder trans women ‘adopt’ younger trans girls as their daughter.  These  relationships were strengthened in the dorm, references to ‘my mother’ or ‘my father’ baffled me.  At first.

Family connections emerged, not bound by blood but by commitment.   Young gay men needing advice, support, succor and council turning to those they respected.  Adopting one another as mother and daughter.  Father and son. Letting those about them know that familial ties now existed, that they were to be honored.

My son is fighting.  My daughter wants a dress. My mother has had bad news.  My father’s husband is being released.

As we ate together at night.  These ‘families’ helped each other practically:  feeding each other, sharing the loaves and the fishes.  Sharing the support, the love, the strength, the gossip.   That which may not have existed from real parents, from blood brothers, from those who we take for granted…from whom we were born.

Many young black men from Compton, Watts and Inglewood had spent their formative years co-opted into gangs.  The Bluds and the Crips.

Their coping skills would horrify you, you my dear readers…but kept them alive.  Murder, guns, retaliation, fighting to the death were common for most of the young black men I met.  Frequent.

On top of all that, against that barbaric backdrop they had to deal with coming out.

More of this later.